


I Was a Landscape in Your Dream

by allourheroes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Derek left. Just like everyone else in his life.</p><p>It should've been fine. It shouldn't have mattered after everything that had happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was a Landscape in Your Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superdeanlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superdeanlover/gifts).



> I've watched 0% of season five (and it kind of sounds like a mess), but she needed some cheering up from the horrors of ships and canon. I don't know how _cheerful_ this is, but...yeah. This may or may not get a sequel.
> 
> (Title from an Of Montreal song.)

Before Derek disappears, he pays Stiles a visit. It isn’t the first time, but it is, too.

It’s the first time things go from talking, from just being in the same room, breathing the same air, to something wordless–but not soundless, no. The muffled sound of skin on skin, of breath catching, the slick back and forth slide of–

But then Derek is gone.

Stiles showers, scrubs his skin red and raw. He washes his sheets over and over again and hopes that none of the others will know.

He doesn’t tell them about the nightmares, but his dad knows. And that’s enough to keep them from asking too many questions about why he’s so meticulously clean, why he won’t let anyone touch him.

Stiles tries not to be obvious.

It’s Malia who tells him that he smells different. They’re not really together anymore, except when they are. It’s a comfort thing, a need for some kind of contact. And Malia doesn’t make it weird.

She tells him that it smells like there’s been a girl in his room and he raises an eyebrow at her, as if that much should be obvious. She shoves him, says, “Not me.”

“Then who?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I guess…I guess it smells like you. But also…” There’s a look that crosses her face, but she shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles starts to feel off though. His nightmares morph into other things, start centering on something growing inside of him. He thinks it’s the nogitsune again, almost expects it even in dreams, but they’re wolf claws that finally puncture through the skin of his stomach, prying their way out.

It’s Derek who stands in front of him. Faces away from him.

He reaches out, but then he curls in on himself, crippled by the pain in his abdomen.

It still hurts when he wakes up and he clutches his stomach, buries his face in his pillow so he won’t make any noise.

Stiles doesn’t want his dad to worry.

So, in lieu of seeing an actual human doctor, Stiles ends up going to Deaton.

With Deaton, he can be honest–about the dreams, if nothing else. Deaton _knows_. And Stiles tells Deaton all that he thinks to say, anything that seems pertinent.

Deaton approaches it with the same kind of serious concern he approaches everything else, especially given their history. “In the dream,” he starts, looping his stethoscope around his neck, “it’s something inside you?”

Stiles nods, swallows, taps his fingers under the edge of the metal table he’s sat upon.

Then, Deaton’s getting out those things that vets don’t need–strange herbs and objects Stiles can only guess the purpose of–and Stiles whispers, meek and helpless, “Please tell me it’s gone.”

He means the nogitsune, but Deaton’s face is carefully blank as he performs some sort of ritual that Stiles is literally too freaked out to pay real attention to.

“It’s not the nogitsune,” Deaton says, and Stiles doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief.

“Then what is it?”

Stiles can’t leave after he hears the news. He sits in his Jeep, hands glued to the steering wheel, his eyes squeezed shut.

“ _Get rid of it_ ,” he’d told Deaton, voice rough, the sound punched out of him.

But here he is. Here it is. The curious part of him itches to reach down to his abdomen, to feel if it could really be there, but he clenches the steering wheel instead. “Goddamn it, Derek,” he murmurs under his breath.

Eventually, he drives home, locks himself away from his dad and Malia and Scott and anyone else who might try to talk to him. Not that anyone comes, not tonight.

He has an intense nostalgia for Derek dropping by, can see it in his head: Derek climbing through his window, Derek appearing behind him soundlessly, Derek sitting at the edge of his bed and unable to make eye contact. Stiles blinks away tears he didn’t realize had been forming. Derek was only the latest in a long list of people leaving, but it seems particularly unfair. After all, they had finally found Derek and then he had _left_. On purpose.

And Stiles is left with this– His hand hovers over his abdomen and he finally presses down. This is one of many marks that his life has left on him, but this is one left by _Derek_. Not that Stiles isn’t to blame.

If Derek weren’t what he is, Stiles would’ve left his fair share of marks, too–where fingernails had clawed into Derek’s back, where his teeth sank into Derek’s shoulder as he muffled a sob, a cry, a curse.

It had only happened _once_ , even though Stiles had probably imagined it hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.

Stiles wonders if he could find Derek now, but he doubts it. The Hales are particularly good at disappearing, it seems. Hell, Derek hadn’t known one of his sisters had survived the fire until she had come back.

Lying back on his bed, Stiles tries to just breathe. “Derek,” he says, as if it will somehow summon the werewolf back to him.

He falls asleep in his clothes–jeans and shoes and all–on top of the covers.

He wakes up to tapping and, as groggy as he is, he thinks again of Derek.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes that it’s light out and that it’s his dad knocking at the door. He glances at the clock and swears under his breath. “I’m up!” he shouts.

The day doesn’t drag by so much as disappear completely in the haze of Stiles’s mind. When Scott nudges him, he grunts in response, nods when Scott asks him if he’s okay. Scott looks at him with concerned eyes, but he shrugs his friend’s gaze off, murmuring, “Don’t worry about it. No big bad wolf knocking on my door or anything.” _Unfortunately_ , his mind so helpfully adds.

A month passes like this. Stiles is a few months in, he knows. And his body isn’t shy about telling him through various aches and pains, the stretch of his skin.

He doesn’t gain as much weight as he probably should, but, despite everything else they’re always going through, Stiles’s friends take note of the changes in him. After the nogitsune thing, he guesses they can’t afford to ignore boring, human Stiles anymore.

“What’s wrong?” “What’s going on?” “Are you okay?” “You smell different.” “Don’t keep secrets from us.” “Why haven’t you said anything?”

Much as Stiles normally loves to talk, he makes Deaton explain–and the idea has Scott even _more_ freaked out because…if Deaton is involved, it _must_ be serious. They come find him after, come to his bedroom and confront him with all their thoughts and questions and–

“Can’t you get rid of it?” Malia asks, blunt and oblivious to the shock it will cause.

Stiles opens his mouth, words caught in his throat: _Don’t you think I want it gone?_ “Can’t,” he ends up saying, after shaking his head a moment, uncertain. “Deaton doesn’t know what that’d do to me, anyway,” he explains, as if that’s the entire reason he hasn’t tried. He doesn’t add, _He doesn’t know what this will do either._

“Wait…” Scott starts, and Stiles braces himself. He knows that Scott has put it together finally, that thing that no one else has dared to ask. “Isn’t there…another person involved?”

Malia looks alarmed. “It couldn’t be mine, could it?”

Stiles can laugh at that, although it comes out sharp and bitter. “No. No, it’s not yours. God, is anyone else hungry?” he asks, deflecting. Malia and Kira are kind enough to go grab something, but Scott isn’t ready to let go.

“Who?” he asks, claws lengthening. It makes Stiles want to laugh again, but he just keeps sitting, knees pulled up to his chest, hiding himself. “ _Stiles_ ,” Scott demands, with an anxious glance at the door, as if a werecoyote and a kitsune couldn’t hear them anyway.

Stiles lets out a long breath. “Who do you think?” he asks. He thinks it should be obvious, but his friend’s furrowed eyebrows say differently. His finger traces the initials out onto the bed, the ones that he had stared at in the library. _DH_.

Scott’s eyes narrow, then widen. Before he says it, however, Kira and Malia return, arms stacked with everything they could find in the house.

“Oh, my god. _Thank_ you,” Stiles tells them, and begins rooting through the selections. He was lying about being hungry, of course, but he can make a show of it for their sake. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s even capable of eating now.

Eventually, he convinces them to leave, although Scott lingers.

“DH?” he asks. “DH as in… As in _Derek_?”

“Goodnight, Scott,” Stiles says, and shuts the door behind him.

Stiles can never shake them at school after that. Everywhere he goes, he knows there’s a protective presence nearby. It’s almost like the old days, when Derek would show up to stalk him and Scott. He didn’t think he’d ever miss that.

Missing it now seems stupid, but this thing in him… This thing is part Derek and Derek will probably never know unless he comes back to Beacon Hills to die like everyone else has.

Maybe it’s best if Derek stays away.

He decides this, reminding himself of it every day for another month or so, until even going to school is too awkward to bear and he has to tell his dad, has to stay home, claiming stress and trauma and all these truths that are not the truth.

Stiles has to tell his dad whose it is–his dad won’t let that go, no matter how hard Stiles tries to say it doesn’t matter.

“Derek’s, alright?” he finally shouts. “It’s Derek’s!”

He pushes even his dad away.

But one morning he wakes up and he’s…warm.

Stiles enjoys it for a moment–comfortable and groggy and always exhausted–but it doesn’t take long for him to realize it’s not right. Is it another dream? Is it… _Who_ is it? His heart starts racing and he’s about to slam an elbow back just in case and–

“It’s me.”

Stiles’s entire body goes tense. “Derek?” he says, barely a whisper.

“Stiles,” Derek– _Derek?_ –says.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Will he ruin it by turning around? It can’t… It can’t really be him, can it?

There’s a hesitance in the voice and the uncertainty reflects Stiles’s own. “Can I?”

A hand waits above his abdomen and Stiles gives a minute nod. Fingertips barely brush over his rumpled t-shirt before he hears the gasp and has to turn, has to see for himself.

“Derek?” And it shouldn’t be a question this time, but it is.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, presses his forehead to Stiles’s.

Stiles’s bump brushes Derek’s abs and it should be scary–this whole thing is terrifying–but in that moment, just for a second, all Stiles feels…is _calm_.  



End file.
